


Engraved

by Sensabo



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensabo/pseuds/Sensabo
Summary: It's the stolen moments tucked into the shadows, the heat between them that erases the loneliness of moments spent apart and the marks that carry him through.
Relationships: Sisyphus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Engraved

**Author's Note:**

> I am once again here to feed myself, despite never having written anything nsfw before.  
> Also, super happy to see more Sisyphus fics lately, I could cry. There's finally more meals, more people at this table I'm so proud of y'all.
> 
> * * *

At first, it’s the contrast.

The rough scrape of stone against his back, the shifting heat encasing his front.

The cold bite of metal against his skin, the soft brown hair curled around his fingers.

But now, now it’s all the little things.

It’s the way the hand curled around his thigh pressed, fingers digging in -- _needy_. It’s the marks bloomed across the skin of his shoulder, neck, anywhere and everywhere that could be reached. It’s the hitch of breath against him whenever his fingers dig in, scrambling for purchase, or twist into brown curls for anchorage. It’s the rumble of a moan that he feels, stamped onto his skin with the delicious pressure of teeth.

It swells, pulses and merges to shape into a torrent that sweeps him under. It’s difficult to stay afloat, to keep his head above water. He’s drowning, drowning, drowning. The world tilts, blurred, and his chest burns with a fire he can’t name.

But Sisyphus bows to kiss him once more, and it’s _right_.

If only he could keep up.

Another shift of the man’s hips, a change in angle and pace, has Zagreus tossed off kilter. He scrambles for purchase, for breath, as his blunt nails dig into the freckled skin of Sisyphus’s back. He can’t, he can’t -- can’t keep up -- and Sisyphus’s large hand around him is a firm pressure that isn’t _moving_ anymore. Zagreus squirms, every inch a butterfly pinned to the wall.

He feels the smirk pressed against the pulse in his neck, the subtle pressure of teeth.

“You’re not,” Another shift and roll of the hips that punches the air from his lungs. “P-playing fair.”

Sisyphus presses a kiss to his temple, a rather gentle gesture compared to the way his touch elsewhere keeps the prince hanging by a thread. “You’re not at your limit yet, Prince.” His hand cupping Zagreus’s thigh squeezes, scratches his nails _just_ so against the skin. “You can go higher still.”

Blood and darkness, there’s _more_?

Sisyphus is a crescent moon curved to cover his smaller stature, which curled in his embrace. The man is all he can see. The brown curls that brush against his cheeks just shy of tickling every time Sisyphus claims another mark on his neck. The sight and feel of those lips, sloped in that soft smile with an edge tucked into the corners -- the weight of which he feels with every press of teeth against his skin. Those brown eyes that sparkle like frozen dew on the tree he stood under to watch the sunrise -- bright with the colors of the world and yet all the more vulnerable in the light.

The man is all he can feel. The scarred skin beneath his fingertips, the way the crossed scars stretch across the man’s left collarbone -- a path Zagreus’s fingers can’t help but trace. From the scar, over the collarbone with that single mark of his own lips, up to Sisyphus’s neck, where his fingers reach and entangle in those curls. He feels the way Sisyphus’s hands hold him, firm with the lingering pressure of _longing_ \-- the scrape of nails that itch to bring the prince closer and closer still.

Zagreus can barely breathe, his body burning hotter than Asphodel -- and yet Sisyphus promises _more_?

There can’t, there can’t -- can’t be. He won’t make it, he won’t, and if Sisyphus’s hand between them doesn’t **move** \--

Sisyphus adjusts his hold on the prince’s thigh and it’s then, in that split moment of movement, that the man brushed against a deeper part of him that turned his blood to stardust. It tore a moan from his lips, burning, burning, burning as his nails dug into Sisyphus’s shoulders. His vision dimmed for a heartbeat, and it’s so hot, too hot.

Zagreus feels rather than hears Sisyphus’s hum in his ear, the man’s smile pressed against his temple and his murmur, voice a rich rumble that unravels something within the prince, “There we go.”

The man’s grip on Zagreus’s thigh tightens and it’s the only warning he has before the snap of the world shattering. It splinters, catches on his lungs and shreds them on the way down, down, down, where Sisyphus’s hand finally, finally, _**finally**_ moves. There’s not enough air in the room and he’s burning, burning, burning up in the man’s embrace -- not even the cold walls scraping against his back help anymore, it’s hot, hot, too hot. The heat is in his lungs, his veins, and he scrambles and clings to all that he has -- the man’s name tumbles from his lips, a prayer, a plea all woven and melded with sounds he’s never made before. And he’s trying, oh is he trying, to keep up -- but Sisyphus’s lips curve into a grin against his neck and the pace is faster, faster, and deeper still. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t--

The man’s large hand twists, a swipe of the thumb paired with that delicious pressure of teeth on his neck and Zagreus is gone.

His back arches, taunt and beautiful as Odysseus’s bow. There’s stardust in his veins, burning and dark and rolling -- it claims his vision, his voice, his hearing, his breath. There’s a vastness to it, a darkness that stretches and compiles all at once -- a revelry that thrums in his very soul.

Zagreus falls to the Underworld with the soft touches of Sisyphus on him, rubbing his arms, his legs, brushing the damp hair from his face. They sit on the stone floor, the prince curled up in the man’s lap and dwarfed by the way he curved over him. There’s a soft, faint hum of a nameless melody on Sisyphus’s lips as he works, large hands always, always, always so gentle.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

Zagreus mulls over the question more so to find his voice than to really ponder, and it takes a beat longer than it should. His voice is rough, jagged at the edges and his lungs still burn with a fire he has only just learned the name of. Zagreus reaches out, the lingering heaviness in his muscles bleeding from him with each pulse of his heart. He manages to distract one of the man’s hands and laces their fingers together. “Again,” he says.

The cough and blush that spreads across Sisyphus’s cheeks is quite the sight. “A-alright, give me a moment, though. I’m afraid I’m not as young and spry as you, Highness.”

“Zagreus,” the princeling corrects gently. His gaze drops to their hands and he presses his lips together in thought. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

Zagreus shifts, half rising in Sisyphus’s lap as he places both hands on the man’s shoulders. Honestly, it’s like as not the man’s pure bewilderment that allows him to so quickly and easily push and coax Sisyphus into laying back. The prince sits, straddling and oh the blush that blooms across Sisyphus’s ears and down his neck is beautiful. The hands on his thighs twitch as he leans forward and runs his fingers over the man’s chest and scars.

More, he wants more. More expressions, more sounds. More touch.

He feels the breath Sisyphus takes, the words that start to form on his tongue as the blush deepens. Zagreus closes the last bit of distance between them to press their lips together and drown whatever words the man would have said.

Just a little more. Just for now.

“Let me take care of you this time.”


End file.
